


For the Asking

by onthewaters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-13
Updated: 2011-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-19 08:50:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onthewaters/pseuds/onthewaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Sam is detoxing, Dean has a visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Asking

**Author's Note:**

> ***
> 
> If you consider posting this work to Goodreads: Please do not do it. These stories are fanfiction, and I don't want them near a site that's primarily for published original fiction.
> 
> While I appreciate that you might enjoy having them on your Goodreads shelves, please respect my wishes.
> 
> Thank you.

It was when Sam's voice broke on a _please_ at day two, hour fourteen that Dean thought that Lucifer didn't even need to come to Earth for Hell to be there. Hell already was.

Dean went up, leaving Castiel to keep watch before the panic room, avoided Bobby. Out for a moment of air, just out. Only for a few minutes before he went back in. He breathed in the night air, wet from the rain, thumb rubbing the label on the bottle. Only a few minutes. Then he'd go back in and keep listening to Sam go through Hell. Dean tilted the bottle and swallowed, not tasting anything beyond the burn of alcohol.

It was the begging. And the screaming, but mostly the begging. People didn't beg like that when they thought the pain would ever end. They begged like that when they had lost all hope and couldn't tell the difference between friendship and betrayal anymore. Dean had begged like that himself plenty of times. Hearing Sam beg like that was – just wrong.

Bobby had tried to send him to bed earlier, when Sam had graduated from screaming abuse to crying.

_"You don't have to be here for this."_

_"Sam has to be here for this."_

Dean would have given anything not to have to listen to it anymore. He didn't want Sam to have to beg like that anymore. He didn't want to have to hear it. He didn't want Sam to be in pain, he didn't want any of this. He wanted –

 _Already dead,_ Famine had said. Dean lifted the bottle to his mouth but didn't drink. He didn't want any more to drink. He didn't want to sleep or eat or fuck. That probably counted as dead, in Famine's book.

 _Prayer is a sign of faith_ , Castiel had said. More like a sign of rock-bottom. He lifted his face to the cloudy sky. There was nothing left to lose by asking.

"Please. I can't-" His throat closed. New start. "I need some help." Silence save for the wind and far-off traffic. "Please?"

Dean waited, trying not to start crying because it wouldn't help, it never helped.

Nothing. Of course, who would even answer a prayer like that? He lifted the bottle again but again set it down without drinking. Only a moment longer, then he'd go back in.

He turned and startled back. There was an ancient motorcycle there shadowed by the cars – an Indian – which hadn't been there before, a man wearing a beaten-up hat leaning against it. Dean blinked – none of the angels – or demons – had ever bothered to show up with a ride before.

The man lifted his head and looked straight at him. Normal eyes, in a weatherbeaten, wrinkled face. Kind eyes.

"Evenin', Dean."

"Who are you?"

The man smiled. His teeth were stained and worn, but his lips moved into the smile easily. "Y'asked for help, didn't you? I'm here to help."

"Really?" Great, Dean, so you get your prayer answered and you tell the guy you don't believe it? "I mean, that's great. Can you fix Sam?" Dean found himself closer, close enough to smell oil and grass and smoke. It was enough to finally make the smell of blood fade from the back of his throat.

"He need to be fixed?" The man tilted his head sideways, the hat casting shadows oddly across his face.

Dean swallowed. "It's the demon blood. He's going through withdrawal." He breathed in dirt and oil and a woodsy smell. "He's in pain."

The man nodded. "He would be, at that."

"So. Can you fix him?" _Please say yes. Please make this go away._

"Sam ain't enjoying hisself right about now," said the man softly. "But he'll get through all right. Come out stronger, clearer. Walked in that room all by his lonesome, knowing what'd happen. Had a spot o' trouble finding his way, but now? Boy's on the right road."

Dean couldn't breathe. "You mean you won't fix him?"

"He don't need fixin', Dean. He's got a brother who holds him up when he needs it. He don't need more than a bit o' time." The man again tilted his head at Dean. "How 'bout you?"

Dean shook his head. "Sam –"

The man smiled at him softly and before Dean got to know Castiel, he'd have compared it to an angel's smile. "Dean. You asked for help. What do you need?"

He couldn't help the tears that rose. "It's – so heavy –"

"Yes." The man straightened up, and the light from the house fell on old leather and worn denim. "It is. Been many a man been crushed beneath a weight less than yours. Been not so many took the weight and endured it. Been even fewer took their burden and carried it. You been carrying it a long time, Dean. And you ain't done."

He was leaking not just tears but snot. Dean wiped his face against his sleeve. "I can't do this."

"Y'can," the man told him. "Y'can. Don't feel like it right 'bout now, but y'can. You carry your brother when he needs it, Dean. But he can carry you, too."

"Sam's in just as bad as I am –"

"So much doubt," the man said, eyes glinting under the hat. "Trust your brother a little, Dean. He ain't gonna betray you again. Y'helped him on the road, but now he feels it under his feet, he'll follow where it leads."

 _The only thing more painful than despair is hope betrayed,_ Dean thought. "You sure?"

The hat shifted as the man looked down. "Certain sure. You ain't alone there. You got a brother who's learnin' to repay all you did for him."

It helped. No idea how, but it helped. "Thanks."

"Just helpin' here, a little." The man dug one hand into the pocket of his coveralls. "Tobacco?"

"Uh, no. Thanks."

"Mind yourself." The tobacco was extracted from a dented tin with most of the paint rubbed off, then popped into the man's mouth. "Hits the spot, this."

"Great," Dean said and lifted his bottle. Then set it down again without drinking. "You know…"

"Yes?"

"Famine said that I – I was dead already. That that was why I – didn't feel anything." He felt stupid saying that but whoever this was, whatever he was, he didn't grate on Dean like everything else did, and he had asked for help and if there was even the slightest chance – but there was a pause, and Dean was on the verge of saying _forget it_ or something, when the man nodded again.

"He'd say that, wouldn't he." Dean froze. "Famine don't deal in livin', he deals people dyin' of cravin'. For him, only time the cravin' stops is when people is dead. Stands to reason he wouldn't understand why someone don't crave and lives."

Something cramped and painful inside him was beginning to ease. Only a little, but it was enough to keep Dean there and listening.

"If y'hurt a critter badly enough, it'll stop doing everythin' it doesn't have to do. Stops drinkin' 'cause drink don't taste fine no more. Stops eatin' 'cause food tastes like dust and sits in the belly like sand. Stops fuckin' 'cause it's just too damn much of an effort." Dean closed his eyes. "Them's the things Famine looks for. Them's the things that let him get his hooks into people. If someone's hurt badly enough that that ain't working, Famine don't get a hook. Famine don't get shit."

"I'm not hurt," Dean felt obliged to point out. "Healthy as a horse."

The man grinned, tobacco juice staining his teeth. "Oh, your body'll do fine in a pinch and out of it. Y'don't sleep enough, and drink too much, and y'could do with a bit more greens, but your body'll do. 's just not only your body that can get hurt. Works the same with your soul. And that's taken more'n one beating lately." He reached behind himself into a cracked and crackling leather bag, pulling out a beer bottle without a label and popping the cap with his thumb. "So about that, Famine don't know shit."

He took a long slow pull from the bottle and sighed. Dean stared at the bourbon in his hand and tried to remember when he had last had a drink not for numbing purposes.

"So. Will that – go away?"

A knowing look from beneath the hat. "Sure. Oh, don't blush, Dean, recovery's all it'll take. And a willing partner."

Dean let his hand drop from his face but didn't think the redness had faded already. "No shortage of those."

"Guess not," the man said wryly. "But try comfort first, before you try fuckin'. Comfort'll actually help you. Fuckin' someone who's just out for fuckin' – that ain't the best combination right 'bout now."

Dean could see that. He didn't like it, but he could see it. "Yeah. Thanks."

The man smiled and took another pull from his beer. "Don't go hopin' it'll be easy, though. Y'ain't done carrying your weight yet. Goin' to get heavier before it lifts. But it ain't somethin' you need to be doin' by your lonesome." He leaned against the motorcycle again, fingers trailing over beaten-up metal and cracked leather. "You got Sam who'll help you carry it. And there's Bobby."

"Bobby lost so much because of us already," Dean said.

"He did, sure, and he hates it. But what Bobby did, Bobby did because he wanted to do it. He's decided you boys need a daddy, and that he's th'man to provide that."

Dean looked down. "More like an uncle -"

"Don't be dafter than you gotta be," the man said, pointing the bottleneck at him. "Man's takin' care of you like you were his own. Only thing he can't do is give you the kick in the ass you need sometimes."

Dean was surprised into a laugh, then bit his lip. "Yeah, Bobby'll come through with anything."

The man nodded. "He will. Y'might want to take that on faith. That's one time where it'll be rewarded." He shifted. "'s not like you boys don't need a daddy."

 _I'm a grown-up,_ Dean wanted to say. _I'm too old to need a father._ But the man grinned at him as if he knew what Dean was thinking.

"That's right," he said with a laugh as dry as dusty straw. "Ain't nobody been your daddy for too long. Can't have a daddy who's also boss, eh? Bobby can set you straight on that."

He could at that, Dean supposed. "Guess so."

The man finished his beer unhurriedly, stowing the empty bottle in the bag again. He sighed and looked up at the cloud cover. Something in his shadow shifted comfortably. "'s not so bad, Dean. You got a brother, and you got a daddy. Family's important."

"Yeah, all I'm missing is a girlfriend."

The man laughed again, dry and dusty. "You sure?"

Dean frowned. "Well, yeah? I mean –" He trailed off.

"When's the last time you even had a girlfriend, Dean? When's the last time you thought about staying forever? And weren't thinkin' of a piece of tail?" The man grinned. "Girlfriend's not what you need."

"Hey," Dean said.

"Hey me all you like," the man said, still grinning. "You need someone who loves you. You, not your body or what you can do with it, or your charmin' smile, or your sweet ride. Someone who's seen you at your worst and who don't flinch back." He leaned forward. His eyes were still normal, but the light reflected off them in a way that made Dean shiver. "Someone who has faith in you. Who'd do anythin' for you. Anythin' at all."

Dean clutched at the bottle. "But –"

"But, but, always but. Leave off the but. All you gotta do is reach out, and you'll be surprised who'll take your hand." The man stretched. "'s gettin' late. Gotta go, road ain't gettin' any shorter."

Dean watched him turn back to the motorcycle. "You still haven't told me who you are."

The man pushed back his hat and grinned over his shoulder at Dean. "'s right, I haven't. But if you figure I gave you no help – just forget the things I said."

"No. It helped. Somehow."

The man nodded, then swung his leg over the bike, settling down. "Good. Y'ain't alone, Dean. Godspeed."

Dean watched him drive off.

Bobby was asleep at his desk, face down on the books. Dean pushed aside the half-full tumbler of whiskey so he wouldn't knock it over in his sleep, then hesitated.

"Thank you, Bobby."

He went down. Sam was begging still, but he was winding down. Soon he'd fall asleep and in the morning, things would be better. Once Sam was asleep, he'd go in, Dean thought. Give him a quick wash and change the sheets.

Castiel was still standing by the door. He looked up as Dean came down the stairs, and frowned. And he looked at Dean as if there was nothing more important in the world.

"Hey, Cas."

"Dean." Full focus, full attention. Readiness.

Dean breathed through his mouth for a moment, then took a step closer. Another. Castiel looked confused but he always did, and he didn't move away. Dean stepped over the threshold of personal space and of course Castiel didn't get that he should be pushing him back or say something. And when Dean leaned against him, he stopped looking confused and put his arms around Dean. Awkwardly, yes, but Dean buried his face in Castiel's neck anyway. He felt Castiel's hand shift from his shoulder to his head, not stroking or anything, just holding. Holding on.

 _Y'ain't alone._ Dean breathed, thinking he could still smell oil and grass. And laughed, tears in his eyes.

"Do you think God drives an Indian?"

 

~Fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt:
> 
> While Sam is detoxing (again) right after Famine and Dean is outside asking ANYONE for help, someone does come. Could be God setting his head straight about lightening up already. He has his brother with him, trying to walk the straight and narrow, he has Bobby as a father figure he can rely on and Castiel. For what he is good I leave up to you. ;o)


End file.
